


sharing beds like little kids

by hairtiesoncuffs



Series: falling out of conversations [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: But he doesn't know how, But just a little, Everything Gets Worse, Gen, I wrote this fic instead of sleeping, I'm sorry i can't tag, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, also this really sucks, and dean wants to help him, anyways enjoy :), dean winchester is overprotective, i think they're trying to be better, like seriously i should be good at this, sam is just kind of nyeh, sam winchester has hell-related trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairtiesoncuffs/pseuds/hairtiesoncuffs
Summary: He’s seen this before, when Sam was being thrown around in the panic room and then held down, bleeding from the corner of his mouth due to the leather belt cutting into the sensitive skin, and again in a crappy motel room when Sam collapsed mid-sentence and thrashed around on the floor and stopped breathing, staring at nothing as Dean kneeled by his side and begged for the Wall to stay up. This time, Sam’s not being jerked around and is instead shaking violently, the action too simple with the way his breaths grow tight and labored, eyes closed but the lids still fluttering as if he’s seeing something else entirely.part of my same 7x17 au thingtitle from the lyrics of ‘ribs’ by lorde
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: falling out of conversations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906321
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my first chaptered fic in this series!! 
> 
> sorry it took so long, i struggled a bit with the characterization and school started :/
> 
> trigger warnings for (in order) mentions of addiction, seizures, vomiting if you're emetophobic, alcoholism, and the typical spn warnings i guess
> 
> i hope you like the story, apologies for me being horrible at writing dean

Dean knew two things when he ran out of that house on a pitch-black November night, the smell of smoke curling into his nostrils and fire on his heels as he ran, baby brother clutched to his chest. 

The first was that his mother was dead. (Dean’s memories of her now are spotty, faded. There are some that he finds to be particularly vivid, and he holds onto those like a life preserver. Others are split and Dean tries to keep those, but the pieces keep slipping away.)

The second was his job. (Watch out for Sammy. He didn’t need John to tell him to protect his brother, ever. It was practically branded in his blood, far deeper than his need to have a parent for himself as well. Dean would always, will always prioritize Sammy over everything else, no matter what it took from him.) 

Now, Dean knows a lot more about the world and everything that’s in it. He’s been checking the dark corners for creatures since he was four and hunting with John at the age of nine, once they were sure Sam would be fine staying with Bobby for a week or two and, when he was old enough, by himself. Point is, Dean can take care of himself just fine. 

It’s Sam. Every time, it’s Sam. Dean doesn’t blame him, (how can he, with the kid always giving him those damn puppy dog eyes?) but he’ll admit there are some times he wants to. Like, demon blood? Seriously? Sam couldn’t even be an addict the normal way? 

It would be infuriating, if he hadn’t had to sit outside the panic room for hours and listen to Sam suffer alone. (Thinking about it, he realizes those were Sam’s first real experiences with hallucinations. Little did they know how bad it would get.) He knows Sam’s paid for it with the detoxes and the following fevers and pain and spiraling he gets into while being left alone to dry out. Kid has a guilt complex like you wouldn’t believe. (Sam’s brain doesn’t ever shut up, and more than once Dean’s found him talking to himself. There are times where it’s just been him going through a thought process, and others where it’s been Sam listing everything he’s done wrong in his entire life and that’s just not comforting to listen to, is it, so Dean drinks whenever Sam gets like that.) But it’s still  _ Sam. _ Painfully so. 

Which means that when his baby brother (Sammy will always be Dean’s baby brother, no matter how much taller or, if they get technical, older than Dean he is) suddenly passes out in the passenger seat and starts convulsing, Dean’s heart stops for a second and he almost loses control of the Impala. They were supposed to be done with this, Cas (and Dean hates thinking about him, locked up and dressed in white and with Meg) was supposed to  _ stop _ this. 

He’s seen this before, when Sam was being thrown around in the panic room and then held down, bleeding from the corner of his mouth due to the leather belt cutting into the sensitive skin, and again in a crappy motel room when Sam collapsed mid-sentence and thrashed around on the floor and stopped breathing, staring at nothing as Dean kneeled by his side and  _ begged _ for the Wall to stay up. This time, Sam’s not being jerked around and is instead shaking violently, the action too simple with the way his breaths grow tight and labored, eyes closed but the lids still fluttering as if he’s seeing something else entirely. Dean wouldn’t think that he isn’t. “Come on, Sammy, hold on,” he says, gritting his teeth. “We’re almost at the motel, just hold on.” 

Sam groans, head lolling past the seatbelt to bang against the window as Dean makes a sharp turn into the motel parking lot, slamming the brakes on his Baby and turning to give Sam his full attention. The seizure’s probably been on for half a minute, maybe more, and Dean counts anxiously in his head. They’re nearing the three minute mark when Sam finally stops moving around and settles into an uncomfortably still position, head still on the window, arms loose and draping over the leather seats, and he stops breathing. 

“Shit, Sammy, please don’t do this to me,” Dean whispers, feeling for a pulse. It’s still there, a slow steady throb underneath his fingers, and he relaxes just a little. Sam’s panicking then. That’s fine, as long as it’s manageable. 

(That’s been their standards forever, no matter what. Dean hasn’t ever cared about pain or exhaustion as long as he could handle it. Fear or panic had always been quashed down; it was a weakness they couldn’t afford to have considering their propensity to get into end-of-the-world situations. They would handle it with the typical Winchester stoicism, and that would be it. But to be honest, he wants Sam to realize that it’s alright for him to be scared of this. Hell, Dean would give Sam a thousand chick-flick moments if that’s what it took for Sam to be normal about this and stop pretending that everything is fine.)

“D’n?” 

Dean snaps out of his thoughts immediately. “Sammy?” 

His brother nods, closing his eyes at the slight movement. “Wha’ h’ppn’d?” he slurs, struggling to right himself. 

“Woah, woah, easy,” Dean says, not helping him but bringing his hands a little closer. “Your brain just kind of whacked out and tried to kill you again. You had one of those memory seizures, I think.” 

He looks at Dean, confused. “But I don’t—”

Whatever he saw takes the cue to slam itself into Sam’s conscious and the kid moans, curling into himself. “Oh,” he gasps, wincing as Dean places a tentative hand on his back. “Oh, God.” Then he’s moving, shoving the door open and lurching out of the car and onto his knees to empty his stomach on the asphalt. 

Dean’s after him like a shot, throwing open his own door and crouching at Sam’s side as fast as he can, feeling his spine arch under his fingers as his brother retches, panting with every moment between. 

“You’re okay,” Dean says, trying to comfort him. “You’re okay. Jesus, this is like your third dramatic moment in the past two days.” Sam laughs weakly, spitting and wiping his mouth. “You done?” 

“Yeah,” he says, breathless. “I’m done.” 

“Good. Now, what the hell was that about?”

He shakes his head. “No.” 

Dean shifts a little closer to Sam, moving his hand from Sam’s back and up to his neck. He’s a little sweaty, but not hot with fever. “What do you mean, no?” 

“Not now,” Sam asks, not adding the proper inflection but Dean can still tell it’s a question. He’s been taking care of the kid for his whole life, minus four years from Stanford, does Sam really think he doesn’t know everything there is to know about him? 

He runs his hand along the hair on the nape of Sam’s neck. “Sure. Just promise that you’ll explain when you’re ready?” Sam manages a nod, flinching as Dean moves his hand away. “Sammy?” 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “That was just— that was a lot.” 

“You going to be alright?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, waiting for Dean to get up before he attempts to stand, the younger taking a second to balance on him. “Just need to sleep.” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, you look like it.” 

And he does. Dean keeps making jokes about it, but he can’t forget that Sam didn’t sleep for a grand total of eight days. The shadows under his eyes probably won’t be gone for a little while, along with the clear exhaustion that hangs onto every one of his features. Dean doesn’t even want to get started on the cracked and bloody fingernails. Under normal circumstances, either of them getting eight hours of sleep would be ridiculous, much less the twenty-plus Dean made sure Sam got. 

A smile winds its way onto Sam’s face, crooked and sleepy but genuine. “Wake me up before we leave?” 

“Of course. Didn’t I just tell you there was no way for me to carry you anywhere?” Dean asks, chuckling lightly. “You can lean on me.” 

He puts some of his weight on Dean’s shoulder, the two of them going into the motel room. Dean dumps his little brother on the farther bed, fighting off a smile as Sam laughs. “Do you remember when I was little and you used to do that to get me to be quiet? Like, I’d be talking too much and you’d pick me up and drop me on the bed?” 

“Sure do.” Dean sits down next to Sam, tugging off his boots. “You always yelled at me first, but eventually you’d just keep asking for more.” 

The smile drops. “Can’t do that anymore. ‘M too tall for you now...”

“Sammy—" Dean starts. 

“Everything’s different,” Sam whispers. “You’re different. I’m different.” He looks at Dean with eyes that used to idolize him, wide hazel that once held such a hopeful spark, a desire to change the world for the better, even before he knew that he would become a hunter. They’re now dull, haunted, the innocence burned away and tainted with Lucifer’s presence. “It all changed so much, didn’t it?” 

Dean tries to swallow the lump in his throat, and, when he fails, allows it to clog his voice with an amount of emotion he normally tries not to let in. “Yes, Sammy. It did.” 

Sam, Dean wants to believe, is a born hunter. The kid has always been too smart for his own good, asking questions and finding answers on his own whenever they weren’t given to him. That alone was great for hunting, and once their Dad started officially training Sam alongside Dean, they’d discovered that while he wasn’t the most comfortable using firearms or fighting hand-to-hand, (Dad wasn’t ever happy at the end of those sessions, storming inside and instantly opening a beer while Sam waited outside for at least another ten minutes,) he was fast and really damn aware of his surroundings. Dean made sure to praise him after they spent hours outside, whether it was in the baking heat of summer or the dead cold of winter, knowing that Dad would never give Sam the same amount as he would Dean. The youngest Winchester never really ended up throwing himself into the training like Dean did, no matter how hard John tried. 

However, Sam also managed to make a life for himself, without any support from those in his family. The main rule is that hunters don’t really try to get close to people. There’s the community of people in the life, and that was pretty much it. Dean knows he’d never get out of it, he tried that with Lisa and Ben and it ended with Lisa almost dead and Ben scared out of his mind at what Dean did. He’d managed a year and of course, Sam pulled him back in. Dean can’t blame Sam, though, given that his younger brother was practically just returning the favor. He can’t forget the life Sam had set up at Stanford, with a future career and a girlfriend he was planning to  _ marry, _ for Pete’s sake, that’s pretty impressive in Dean’s book. He’d taken Sam and had him ride shotgun in the Impala, reopening his position in the hunter’s circle as John Winchester’s son. The surname alone earned them respect, and their tendency of returning from the dead only added to their reputation. 

Dean’s conclusion: Sam was made for this, and his attempts and building a life lasted as long as his own normal childhood. (They both ended in the same way, with flames and dead blondes and leaving everything they’d had behind.) 

None of that means Sam deserves what was done to him. Agreeing to being possessed by Lucifer only to conquer the control of the Devil and then jump into Hell and prepare to spend eternity there would overwhelm anyone else Dean knows, even himself. Sam was the one who did it, was strong enough to take the reins from Satan himself and even bring Michael down with him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever really stop admiring Sam for that. 

( _It’s okay, Dean. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got him. _

Dean also won’t get over the fact that when Sam— his baby brother, the one he swore to protect —was one step away from true, bloody Hell he tried to comfort Dean. His final moments, last words, were spent doing Dean’s job.) 

He tried to keep going. He tried so hard. And then the son of a bitch let his body come back but not his soul because of course, nothing good happens for them without ropes attached. Dean spent six months walking around with a shell of Sam and looking for any sign of his baby brother inside. He doesn’t like thinking about those six months, or what happened with the Wall up. It was comparable to stepping out of an airless room and taking a deep breath just to learn that the air is poisonous. He held his breath until the Wall came down and then sucked in the poison, thinking it was all over. 

But Sam brought a gas mask. He was fine. They were  _ fine. _ If they weren’t, Dean doesn’t know what he would have done.

(If Sam hadn’t been okay, Dean would have torn through every single one of his contacts and demanded that someone do something for his brother, no matter the cost and would kill anyone who stood in his way. Dean would burn the world to ash if it would help Sam. 

He did. When the hallucinations spiraled out of control and Sam with them, he’d asked everyone he could for help, crossing off names and tearing out his hair in frustration until Mackey gave him an answer in the form of an angel.) 

They’re okay. Neither of them are dying or cursed at the moment and Sam is getting  _ better, _ so they’re okay. Dean looks over at the other bed, watches his brother sleep and imagines he’s five again, before he knew about the monsters and was asking why they didn’t have a mom or why the moved all the time and he was just Dean’s annoying kid brother. When he laughed at all of Dean’s jokes no matter how bad they were and waited for him every day after school and still hugged John after he came back from a hunt. When he would smile as they piled into the Impala and read books under his breath and made sure Dean ate some of his food too, despite being skin and bones himself. When he unconsciously leaned closer to Dean and insisted they get ice cream and let his big brother handle everything and, at the end of the day, pick him up and toss him on the bed. 

Everything changed, indeed. 

Of course, Sam is practically yelling that he’ll be okay. He’s a broken record at this point; telling Dean over and over again isn’t going to do anything to convince him. “What if you have another one?” Dean spits, furious. “I can’t do anything when they’re happening and I can’t just say you have epilepsy or whatever, no one would believe it if we decided to work a case!”

“I’ll be fine, Dean! Can you just not worry about me and let me take care of myself for once?” he shoots back. 

Dean grinds his teeth together in frustration. “Every single time I’ve left you on your own, it’s ended badly.”  _ When we were little with the shtriga, after your psychic summer camp, when I went to Hell, when  _ you _ went to Hell and popped back out missing your soul, every single time, Sammy.  _ “I’m not risking it. Not today.” 

“We can’t just stay here,” Sam points out. “We need to get out of this town.” 

Even Dean has to admit that’s true. Despite the fact that they didn’t go to police this time, Jasper’s going to have to talk to the cops anyway and explain what happened. There’s a chance she might bring the two of them up and they can’t take it. “We’ll get out of here and then we’re hunkering down,” Dean concedes. “We need to make sure none of this is going to start up again.” He wants to talk to Cas, see how he’s doing, ask if he’s still dealing with Sam’s hallucinations. It’s only been a few days, though, and it just doesn’t seem right to contact him yet. “Good?”

Sam nods once, his duffel already half-packed on the bed. He doesn’t look angry or even frustrated, something Dean expects from him after any one of their arguments. Instead, his face rests in careful neutrality, only his eyes betraying him. Unfortunately, Sam turns away before he can pick the emotion apart, placing his clothes inside his duffle and checking an inside pocket as Dean reluctantly does the same. There isn’t a part of him that likes where this is going, but he’ll let it slide. For now. 

Days pass and nothing happens. Dean wants to think that it’s a freak accident and that Sam’s brain is just catching up with the memories after his hallucinations went away because Sam refuses to talk about it or explain anything that’s going on inside his head. (Dean supposes he’s being a hypocrite for asking about the Cage in the first place. It’s not like he reminisced about his time on the rack with Sam.) He’ll go out for runs and continues with his healthy food crap and bitches at Dean but he doesn’t fall on the floor or start convulsing or wake up from nightmares. He seems totally, one-hundred-percent okay. 

(And Dean wants to believe that.) 

It has to be too good to be true. He remembers in the beginning that Sam hid the severity from him and Bobby and Dean knows exactly how that went. 

(Why can’t the kid trust him with any of this? Dean has done his best, tried as hard as he can to let Sam know that he’s here for him, and he just doesn’t talk. It’s beyond frustrating and Dean can’t help if he doesn’t know. 

What did he do in the past that made Sam think he has to hide anything now? There’s nothing Sam can say or do that’ll make him think less of him. He jumped into not only Hell, but Lucifer’s Cage and  _ won. _ He  _ survived.  _ He’s said it before, he’ll say it again: Sam is the strongest person he knows.) 

It’s been a week of them hiding in a random motel in the middle of nowhere when Sam gets a headache that nearly ends with Dean punching him across the face because  _ Sam can’t be keeping secrets, they had an agreement, why can’t you ever listen— _

He sleeps it off. Dean watches him and breathes in sync with his younger brother, attuning himself to the speed. If it picks up, he’ll know. 

Sam continues to be fine. 

Dean, on the other hand, blows up. 

“—cannot deal with this, you’re a fucking time bomb, Sam, I’m not just going to watch you and wait for everything we’ve worked for go to shit because you can’t process your time in Hell!” he shouts, hands tearing through his hair and coming to a stop at his sides. He needs to punch something. 

“The human brain isn’t made to hold that many memories and it’s not like I can just throw them away or forget them—!” Sam starts, aborting his explanation as Dean turns his back on the younger.

“Sure, say whatever you want, but you need to get a grip. I need to know you’re going to be fine before we keep going!” 

He can almost feel the disbelief radiating off of Sam, rolling waves that, if they were physical, would crash against him. “Do you want me to have another breakdown or something?” 

“What? Of course not!” 

“Are you sure, because, it definitely sounds like you do,” Sam accuses, the tears creeping into his eyes unbeknownst to Dean. “You want me to go insane, to relive everything and see it now so that you don’t have to keep worrying about me when I’m perfectly fine!” 

It takes Dean a second to come up with a reply, and he’ll be the first to admit that it’s weak. “Keep telling yourself that!” 

“I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry that I’m not what you wanted! Why won’t you believe me?” 

Dean slams his fist into the motel wall, barely registering the pain before wheeling back on Sam. “Because after everything, after all the times you’ve lied to me about being okay, I need to see you fall and get back up and walk it off before I can know that you’re telling the truth!” 

He can tell his brother wants to scream, release his pain in some way (What was it he said, years ago? Let it out in spurts of anger and alcoholism?) but Sam grew past that before he started elementary school. Instead, he lets himself fall onto the bed and close his eyes, taking deliberately deep breaths to stave off his emotions. “As if it wasn’t enough,” he says, hollow. 

“What wasn’t enough?” Dean demands. 

“My body was shutting down because my mind wouldn’t let it do anything it needed to survive, Dean. Cas taped my brain back together and I stood the fuck up and walked it off and you’re telling me that because of one bad moment, _after_ _ all of that, _ all I am to you is a time bomb?” He huffs, the sound less bitter than he intends it to be and watery with tears that have gone unshed until now. “Fuck you.” 

Sam’s eyes lock on a singular blade of the ceiling fan and Dean goes to drown himself in alcohol, wondering how much it really takes to kill a person. 

He thinks he stumbles back in sometime around four in the morning to see Sam passed out on the bed, tear tracks obvious on his face and puffy eyes showing even in unconsciousness. He doesn’t doubt Sam cried himself to sleep. 

Dean doesn’t have time to feel guilty about it because of the hangover that throbs behind his eyes and rolls in his stomach, barely making it to the bathroom before the vomiting starts and the alcohol burns his throat as it makes its grand reappearance. Somewhere, in the corners of his mind, he’s aware that it’s not daylight out and Sam is missing, but it’s not surfacing in his thoughts because the vomiting keeps dragging it down. He spits, hands trembling and feeling shaky with that woken-up-too-early feeling he can never quite adjust to after constantly switching between the different time zones. His hand is throbbing, and while it’s not even sprained, Dean’s sure he’s got a bruise or two to show for his anger. 

“Shit,” he gasps, holding himself up against the wall as the rest of the headache finally registers, slamming into his temples and settling there, feeling like someone threw a bouncy ball and it’s gone haywire in his mind. It’s been a long time since he’s been this hungover, mostly because alcohol doesn’t affect him as much as it should. “Sammy? I could use a little help here.” 

When there’s no reply, he can feel his heartbeat speed up. “Sammy!” Dean feels like death warmed over, but there is nothing that could stand between him and his brother. “Sam! Cut it out!” 

Nothing. 

“Fine, bitch, guess we’re playing hide-and-seek,” Dean mutters, half-expecting Sam to come in with ‘jerk’ on his lips as he fumbles for the Advil and pops two before going back to the motel room. There’s nowhere Sam could fit his Gigantor body in the room, so he has to assume his brother’s running or getting breakfast or something like that. If the kid’s not back in ten minutes, he’ll call. 

Of course, Dean only lasts five before his phone is in his hand and he’s listening to Sam’s voicemail. He shuts it without leaving a message and checks outside, squinting as the daylight only worsens the headache. The Impala’s still there, so Sam couldn’t have gotten too far. He’s ready to call again when he sees a familiar silhouette walk into the parking lot and pass the car, giving it a sideways glance and wringing his hands, wiping them on his jeans before approaching the motel room. He looks so apprehensive in a way that makes Dean wonder if he said something last night that caused Sam to step out, but the fog of inebriation is covering his memories of the past twelve hours. 

The door swings open and Dean barely suppresses a wince. “Who managed to beat you down?” he asks, gesturing at Sam’s face. 

There’s a shiner framing his left eye and a cut on the same cheekbone, one that was clearly made with a knife. He looks exhausted, as if he didn’t sleep properly and hasn’t done so in months, when he’s been sleeping okay for at least a week and a half. “Seriously, what happened?” 

He gives Dean a once-over and closes his eyes. “Fantastic, you don’t remember anything, do you?” 

“Why? Did I say something? Do something?” Dean asks. 

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Punched a wall, though.” 

“Got that.” He holds up his bruised hand. “Again, what happened to you?” 

He sighs and sits on his bed, taking off his boots and keeping his focus on the laces. “You left around eleven, I think, came back sometime in the dark morning hours. I woke up and left once you got back, needed to clear my head, and some guy stumbled out of a bar, all drunk and belligerent, had a knife. It was fine, I disarmed him, sent him home with a buddy,” he says to Dean’s angry green eyes. He’s exhausted, clearly, but pushing himself through it. 

“You’ve got to stop using big words when I’m hungover,” Dean tells him. “You’re good, though?” 

Sam nods. “Fine.” 

(The set of his shoulders, the tense muscles and way he keeps avoiding Dean’s eyes; there’s something wrong. Sam isn’t telling him everything and Dean has this awful feeling that he’s in the middle of it, but— 

If Dean did something, Sam would tell him. He’s the resident chick-flick can opener, he’d be the one to bring it up and talk about it. 

_ No secrets this time, okay?_ )

He hesitates. “Everything else, too?” 

Sam’s voice is dry. “You mean, I’m not hallucinating Satan or having flashbacks or frothing at the mouth, if we want to get really dramatic?” 

“That, yeah. None of it?” 

“I would tell you the second any of it started again.” 

“Alright, I’ll sleep off this hangover and you can find us a hunt?” Dean asks. 

The look of surprise on Sam’s face isn’t something he wanted to see. “Really?” 

“Yeah, man,” Dean says, eyebrows drawing together. “Why not?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Sorry, just, after last night...” He trails off, perhaps realizing what he said. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

He said something. Dean totally said something to Sam, and he can’t even remember what it is. He swallows the anxious feeling that’s slowly creeping up this throat. “No problem.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually runs away from canon*
> 
> i lowkey hate this chapter and story in general since i can't write dean but next we've got cas again so hopefully that'll be better
> 
> trigger warnings for (in order) hell trauma, mentions of death (as always), flashbacks, more flashbacks and recollections of torture-ish, it gets a little heavy but i think that's it
> 
> we’re about halfway through this series now, so i hope that you’ve been enjoying it!!

Dean presses the gas pedal harder, nudging the Impala just slightly above the speed limit. “Annie, you got it?” 

“Yep,” she says, voice tinny over the phone. “Carson’s headed back to his place now, says he’s sorry he won’t get the chance to catch up with you boys.” 

He rolls his eyes, forgetting for a second that Annie can’t see it. “Of course he is, I’m sure he’s just dying to hear about everything we’ve been fighting against.” 

“More of, how have the two of you been?” Annie counters, and he can hear the sigh. “I know neither you or Sam have had it the easiest lately. Rumors were flying for a while, couple years ago. I didn’t want to ask, but...” 

“But you have to know,” Dean finishes. 

Annie sighs again. “I do.” 

In the passenger seat, Sam gives him a sideways look, obviously questioning, which he answers by tapping the button. “Alright, you’re on speaker. I’m sure there’s some stuff Sam’s going to want to answer himself.” 

“Hey, Sam,” she says, sadness seeping through the speaker. 

Sam says, “Annie, hi,” an opposite to her greeting in more ways than one. “How’re you?” 

“Fine, what are you doing worrying about me?” She laughs, a short sound, and her tone morphs to one much more serious. “I told Dean that there were some rumors going around a year or two back.”

“And we’ve got to attest?” Sam asks. 

Something on Annie’s side shifts. “If you don’t mind.” 

“I’m fine with it,” Dean says, looking at his brother. There’s been a rift between them, it seems, since they’ve gotten back into hunting. He can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s done something, but Sam won’t bring it up except for in the glances he gives Dean in the Impala or the way he bites his lip after he goes through the paper. Dean knows he’ll either let it go and let it surprise him later on when Sam finally acknowledges it (he’s never been the best at keeping secrets around Dean) or drag it, kicking and screaming, out of him. It’s easier to let it go, so he’s done the best he could at that. “Sam?” 

He looks down at his hands, swiping a finger across the scar on his palm and nods. “What do you need to know?” 

There’s a moment of silence that stretches and for a second, Dean’s pretty sure she’ll tell them to forget it and that she shouldn’t be invading their privacy like this, (What happens between the Winchester family stays between them. Every hunter with even the tiniest hint of a brain knows not to go prying into their business, especially since they know not to mess with Sam in any way. Dean made sure of that whenever John took them to a hunter gathering. 

That doesn’t stop the rumors. It never does.) but then the question comes out. “Did both of you really go to Hell? And come out alright?” 

“Yeah,” they say in sync, Sam much quieter than Dean, but there. 

Dean clears his throat. “I went about four years back, I think. Haven’t exactly kept track of time, but yeah. Paid my dues and all, I guess.” 

“And Sam?” 

“Two years ago,” Sam says, teeth gritting slightly. “It was, uh—” he chokes on something mimicking a laugh, “—more than enough.” 

“Putting it lightly,” Dean mutters under Annie’s voice. 

“I swear, there ain’t nothing out there that’ll separate the two of you, huh?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Guess not,” Dean answers. “Hey, we just got back to the motel. Meet us here?” 

“Yeah, your room?” He can hear the wariness sprouting in her tone, knows he’s cut it off earlier than she expected. The explanation will come, he just needs Sam to get out of the car first.

Dean looks at the door, waving Sam out as he shuts off the engine. “Twelve. You need the address or—”

“I’m good. Getting there as fast as I can.” 

“Annie,” Dean says, hand hesitating on the handle. “No matter what you’ve heard about Sam, don’t ask him, okay?” 

“What?” 

“I know you’ve got more questions. I know you want answers, but don’t ask Sam anything. He’s had a shit year, the past couple have been shit years, so back off him. Capiche?” He keeps his voice low and makes sure not to leave any room for argument. 

“Yeah. I got it, Dean.” 

He opens his door. “See you soon.” 

“Uh-huh,” she says, then hangs up. 

Sam’s sitting on the bed when he steps inside the motel room, worrying at his lip again. “Quit that, you haven’t bled enough yet?” Dean teases, tossing his duffel onto a chair. Sam still looks ashamed, turning away a little and going into his own bag. “No, don’t do that again.” 

“Do what?” he asks.

“Nothing.” _Avoid me._ “What d’you got?” 

He runs a hand through his hair, the stress on his face present since the hunt a week and a half ago. “Well, uh, the files Frank sent us before he— you know.” Dean winces at the memory, knowing he and Sam won’t forget the sound of someone choking to death on their own blood over the phone anytime soon. “I’ve been looking at them, it’s mostly just stuff about Dick and the other leviathans. Nothing we don’t know already.” 

“So we’re just waiting on whatever this package is?” 

Sam nods. “Basically.” 

“Man, I’m glad we weren’t there when he opened the fake.” Dean grins, grabbing two beers from the fridge and handing one to his brother, cracking it open. “His face, though, I would pay to see what he looked like.” 

“Probably a sizzling mess,” Sam points out, taking a swig of his own. “What do you thinks inside that’s so important to him?” Dean shrugs. “I mean, the guy did a crap ton of digs to find it, and you know the leviathans have a whole plan. It just doesn’t seem like he’s following it.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re right. But if he found it through a dig, it’s probably some ancient artifact or whatever, right?” 

“I’d think so.” Sam waits for Dean to sit down on the other bed before speaking again, his voice suddenly rough with something less than emotion but more than a lack of sleep. “Do you think they... does Annie, does she _know?_ ” 

Dean’s stomach drops. Obviously, obviously Sam would head down this path the second Annie brought up the rumors. Wondering how much was told about them, how much people knew to be fact and how much people simply believed. They were aware that word had gotten out that they started the Apocalypse, but they also stopped it, and with a greater cost than many other hunters would be willing to make. He swallows nervously. “I don’t know, Sam. There was a lot to the whole thing.” 

“She’s going to ask about it all, wonder what happened when I let Lucifer ride me into the Cage— does anyone even know about the Cage or do they just think I went to Hell like you did?” Sam breathes, all of it coming out in a panicked ramble. “They might. Oh, God. They probably do and they’ll come for us again.” 

“Sam,” Dean says, using the same tone John took with them. (The one Dean found impossible to fight against and always obeyed, the one that snapped orders at the two of them and was used during their training and on hunts, the one he used to hold them together when the monster was more than they expected and everything was going sideways. The one he spoke in when Sam told them about Stanford and Sam fought against John where Dean never would and walked out the door to the sound of it telling him not to come back.) “You have to breathe. Come on. Annie’s smart, she knows where to stop.” 

“But the other—”

“Breathe.” 

Sam does, deep and fighting to keep it even. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.” 

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Dean says, instead of _don’t worry about it._ “I know the truth, and you know the truth. That’s what matters, right? No secrets between us?” 

Something flickers on Sam’s face. “No secrets.” 

“Walking chick-flick moment, what have I told you. We’ve got to stop doing this.” He takes a sip of the beer. 

Because they’re Winchesters and because life just loves to screw them over in every way it can, Annie decides that she’d like to knock on the door right now, causing Sam to nearly jump out of his skin. The kid blinks once, probably to ground himself, then shakes his head and walks over to the door, waiting for Dean to get the borax before opening it. “Hey, Annie.” 

“Sam,” she says warmly, stepping into the threshold only to have borax splashed on her hand. “What the— I’m not a demon.” 

“We’re checking for something else, remember we explained about the leviathans?” Dean says, capping the container and stashing it back in the cabinet. 

Annie nods, understanding. “Right, right. I got your package.” She holds up the small blue case, placing it on the floor and shutting the door behind her. “Want to open it up now or can I get a beer first?”

Sam passes her one wordlessly, shoulders coming up a little bit as he crosses his arms, his typical position of not feeling comfortable in a situation. “Thanks,” Annie says, giving him one of those awkward side smiles Dean has learned to never associate with something good. _Probably trying to figure out exactly what happened to him that made me warn her,_ he thinks grimly.

“It, uh, seemed like it was pretty important,” Dean says, breaking the silence. “We should probably open it up, see what we’re dealing with.” 

Sam nods, picking the case back up and placing it on the counter. “You want to do the honors?” 

“Let’s hope that this isn’t something that’ll kill us,” he says, undoing the latches as Annie peers over his shoulder eagerly and Sam simply stands there, face blank and shoulders still creeping up towards his ears. They relax, more in confusion than anything when Dean opens the case and folds back the piece of canvas fabric covering it. He and Sam exchange a look, brows furrowing and blinking because there’s no way, they didn’t make Annie and Carson go through all that, Frank didn’t die, not for _this._

“Did we just steal a— hunk of red clay?” 

“Sam?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You ready to do this?” 

He nods, handing Dean a pair of safety glasses as well as a mallet, putting on his own pair afterwards. “Alright,” Dean says, taking a deep breath and hitting the clay with the mallet right as a flash of lighting adds to the visibility for a second, thunder rumbling outside a second later. He can only hope Rufus’ cabin will stand up to the onslaught of rain that’ll be pouring down in a minute or two. “Open up, reveal to me your secrets.” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to, uh, chant over it or something,” Sam puts in quietly, blinking. 

“Except we have no idea what we’re dealing with, meaning we don’t know the proper chant. I don’t know, it could even be another one of those, what did Garth call it, a shojo? Alcohol spirit.” Dean grins, bringing the mallet down again. “How hard is it to get through clay?” 

Another flash of lighting, more thunder, and a wary look from Sam. “I’d guess that’s something telling us to stop.” 

“Yeah, well, too bad for them,” Dean says, hitting the clay. “Open sesame, come on.” He keeps going, not noticing the way Sam keeps flinching at the lightning strikes. He’s never been afraid of lighting before, not even as a kid, it was always the clowns. In fact, Dean’s rarely seen him flinch this often, only when— 

(Only when he was hallucinating Lucifer.) 

“You good?” Sam asks. 

He shakes himself, gripping onto the mallet with now-sweaty palms. “Fine. Think I’ve almost got it.” Dean swings one more time, hoping that this isn’t some kind of special clay that’ll take him forever to break off... “What is that?” 

The next lightning strike is practically blinding and the thunder isn’t just a rumble, no longer a warning, instead it _roars_ and when Dean opens his eyes again (when did he close them?) Sam is across the room, curled into a corner with his hands over his ears. 

Angry weather rock can wait. “Sammy!” The kid’s pale, eyes wide open and staring at something Dean can’t see, he’s _trembling,_ and _oh God, not Sammy, not Sammy. Not him, not now, please. We’ve tried so hard, don’t do this now._ If Dean has ever believed in God, now’s the time to show his faith. 

Then Sam gasps, sputters like he’s been underwater and locks onto Dean with rough hands. “D-Dean,” he manages around the chattering teeth and what is happening, they’re still in the cabin, why is Sam shivering—? “Dean!” 

“I’m right here,” he says, fingers wrapping around Sam’s desperately groping ones and fighting to steady them. “I’m fine, Sammy, it’s all okay.” (Sam needs to stop, he can’t keep doing this, Dean’s going to have a heart attack from the stress this kid puts him under. Jesus, _Sam._ Dean thought that they were done with this, that Sam was okay, unless the rock did something to him. There’s no other explanation, is there, of course whatever it is would affect them. Dean is reminded, rather cruelly, that they have Winchester luck. Nothing can go right for them until they’ve saved the world. Again. 

And then something comes along and screws it all up. Again. 

He’s overthinking. Like he always does when it gets back to Sam. He breathes and holds onto Sam, using his brother to ground him as much as Sam is doing the same with Dean. The difference is, Sam is using the warmth coming off of him and Dean is trying to bring circulation back to Sam’s icy fingers. Seriously, there’s no way his hands should be this cold.) 

“Frozen hands, where’d these come from?” Dean asks after about a minute of awkward silence. 

“Cage,” Sam murmurs, in more of a breath than an actual voice, forcing the word out before realizing what he’s said and clarifying for Dean’s sake. “Flashback.” 

Dean swallows nervously, pressing his fingers in a bit harder. “I thought...” 

“The memories are still there. That’s just how it is,” Sam says, sounding scarily neutral as he stands up, nothing for Dean to bother himself with. “What was inside?” 

“Uh, some rock thing,” Dean says, trailing after him. “Dude, you sure you’re okay?” He’s still shaking a little, especially his hands. He won’t comment on it, but with the way he folds his arms, he can tell Sam knows where his mind is. 

“I’m fine, Dean. It happens. It’s been happening, but it’s nowhere near where it used to be. I’m managing it without you even noticing, okay?” 

“Wait, wait, I didn’t notice you having flashbacks of not just Hell, but _Lucifer’s Cage?_ How do you hide that?” Dean demands, voice rising. 

“No, you didn’t, because I can handle them just fine on my own,” Sam says, giving Dean a glare. “I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be focusing on whatever Dick’s got planned with the tablet here, so leave it be. It’s under control. And I know, I know I said that about the hallucinations, but this time there’s nothing else happening besides my brain sifting through the memories and when it gets to one that’s too hard for me to just look at, it makes me experience it. Alright?” 

There’s something in his voice, an edge of irritation and sternness, mixed together in the way he speaks like Dean has never heard it before. Hearing Sam that way, less like Dean’s little brother and more like something separate, like there’s something inside of him that’s waking up where it wasn’t before, it’s enough to make him concede. 

Mistake.

(Dean’s still worried because if Sam’s brain isn’t processing certain memories and making him relive them, it’s because they’re too big. It’s like a file on a computer that takes longer to upload; the memories Sam has to be inside of are the ones that his brain finds too big or too detailed or just too much, and Sam has to go through the worst memories of the bunch. Is he even at the truly awful stuff yet? If he’s handling it without Dean noticing, they can’t be that bad.) 

However, it seems like the right decision because only a day later some kid with floppy hair and anxiety spiking through the roof (Dean knows the look all too well; he’s dealt with Sam for so long. The kid’s practically a ball of nerves as of late,) is apparently the one who can read the chicken scratch on the magic rock. He says his name is Kevin Tran, but Dean isn’t paying attention. “You mean, we get to know everything there is to know about demons?” 

“I— I think so, it, uh, it says this is the demon tablet, I think, it keeps shaking and I can’t, I can’t focus,” he stammers, clearly out of his league. “Who are you people? Why do you know this stuff and why am I being sent on a— on a _mission_ from _God,_ I’m trying to get into Princeton, I’m just a student. I didn’t ask for all this prophet business and demon stuff!” 

“What is there about killing them?” Dean demands. 

“I don’t know! I told you, it’s all shaky and it hurts to read. I can’t just pull it out of thin air!” 

Sam swoops in and starts with all of his pansy reassurance stuff while Dean sits down. If this means what he thinks it does… they can end it. Right here. Right now. Get rid of all the demons and be _done._

That would… he’d like that, actually. Dean’s been pushing for years, his whole life almost, all of it gearing up to this. Closing the door to Hell and throwing away the key. 

(Would Dad be proud of them?)

And then everything goes to shit. 

Like he said. 

“I don’t want to see him again, I don’t, I don’t, Dean, please, I can’t do this again—”

His stomach drops. (Dean knew this was coming, he knew it, there were so many signs pointing towards it. The way Sam kept spacing out and staying up at night to avoid sleep, to avoid Lucifer, just like he had before he turned the corner and got really bad.) “Sammy, just focus on my voice,” he says, trying to prevent it from wavering as he steps closer. “I’m right here. I’m going to take your hand, and then I will press down on the scar on your palm, okay? You’re alright, Sammy.” 

“No, no, stop, please, it hurts,” Sam gasps, tears in his eyes as Dean presses as hard as he can. “Stop, stop, _stop!_ ” 

He digs his nails in and Sam screams. 

(They’re the same ones Alastair taught him to produce.) 

“What do you want from me?” Sam yells, trying to escape Dean’s grip and shuddering. “What do you _want,_ you fucking—“ He’s sobbing now, great gasping breaths that collapse in his throat to the point where he’s choking on them. “I gave myself up to you, what more can you take away...”

Dean speaks around the knot in his throat. “Sammy, come on man, you’ve got to breathe. He’s not here.” 

“Just stop,” Sam says, empty and detached. _“Please.”_

(He can’t listen to this kid (his kid) think that he’s Lucifer, but he has to. 

They weren’t like this before. Sam could still see Dean and know who he was, that never changed. Ever.

But that's changed. Just like everything else.) 

He stops. Calculates how badly this can really go. Then hits Sam on the head and watches his brother go limp. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, trying to pull himself together before Sam wakes up again. He’s got to handle this like a hunter. 

Assess the situation, right? That’s what they do? Figure out what’s happening and what the bad guy is? (Dean doesn’t know anymore because this is his brother, this is Sammy, and this is Sam’s mind fighting him once again which means that Sam is the bad guy and Dean has spent far too much time trying to tell him that he isn’t to even think about Sam like that.) He’s been on this path for so long it’s practically ingrained into him, but as of late, the bad guys haven’t been newspaper articles and monsters to gank. It’s been more along the lines of ‘the world is ending and only we can stop it (because we caused this in the first place)’. 

Sam groans as he fights his way back to awareness, a hand flying up to his head and then clutching at it, this time latching onto his skull as Dean can physically feel any trace of hope leaching out of his body. Unconsciousness has been a reset before, and if it’s not working, if Sam is still remembering, he doesn’t know what else to do. The scar is the last bit of ammo they have in their guns, because logic obviously doesn’t work and Dean just doesn’t know what to do, this is Sammy, he has to know— 

Sam lies supine on the floor, nose bloody and face pale from his ordeal as Dean finally, finally prays. 


End file.
